Kaitlyn Pink

Their relationship is all about learning. Learning how to receive care. Care they both give out so easily yet feel so uncomfortable when it is reciprocated.

MC does small things around the castle to help minimize all the responsibilities Barbatos has.

Barbatos makes MC tea, as thanks. (Though it is a little “selfish”, since he says that spending time with MC always lifts his spirits.) And keeps a close eye on them when it comes to RAD, and the brother’s shenanigans.

They both send each other Good Morning/Night messages. Reminding each other to eat, drink water, and rest when needed. Soft touches in passing, and long conversations about boundaries when alone. What can MC do to help Barbatos without overstepping? What can Barbatos do for MC without him overwhelming them?

Speaking of alone time, MC can let out her anger, sadness, and regret with Barbatos once they trust each other enough. And Barbatos shows MC his softer side without even meaning to at times. Bigger, genuine smiles and laughter. His more mischievous, chaotic side slipping through as well.

They take baby steps, but they both learn to accept affection, and acts of service. Because they both deserve to be dotted on and loved the way they dote and love others!!!

<3

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A/N: It’s 2am so hopefully this makes sense by morning lmao. This can be seen as romantic or platonic tbh. Barbs has been invading my mind and I’m not complaining. Expect a long fic about him coming soon!

I’ll edit any mistakes later :b

- he worries when he's not with you - especially if you're with Mammon or Solomon - so he enforces a rule that you have to text him a picture of whatever creature or food you want to investigate before you do so. you once came home telling him stories of the very cute, very dangerous lizard you saw on the way home and he had to sit down

- dates with him often consist of him taking you to the most interesting spots in the Devildom, and letting you run wild. he watches with hearts in his eyes as you try to pet a small carnivorous flower

- your curiosity is incredibly endearing to him. in a world full of politics and stress, he enjoys when his biggest problem is trying to keep you from ingesting poison fruit. he's aware that it looks delicious, please trust that it isn't

barbatos

- you stress him out beyond belief, but he loves you anyways. he has had to rewrite history before because you can't stop touching cursed objects

- he makes little blind boxes of random (safe) Devildom things for you to rifle through when you visit him. flowers, gems, feathers - anything he can find that won't cost you a finger

- shows you the proper way to investigate something new without risking a limb or your life. you immediately proceed to ignore him in pursuit of a concerningly large demon dog and he can already feel a headache coming on

- takes you on guided tours of the castle, explicitly telling you what is and isn't going to burn you to the touch. when your hands inevitably start wandering he uses his tail to flick you away

- has a shelf in his room dedicated to the things you've brought him before. he remembers the story behind each and every one, even if you don't

- after centuries of routine, your unabashed curiosity is a sweet relief to him. he wishes he could all spend his days keeping you from getting your fingers bitten off

simeon

- you've got him in dad mode 24/7. he spends his days juggling questions from you and Luke (who gets close to cardiac arrest every time you risk your eternal soul)

- turns your adventures into little stories, usually ending with you finding a treasure that won't skin you alive if you move it

- he teaches you how to read ancient text so hopefully the next time you come across a room that says DO NOT ENTER you... won't enter

- enlists Luke to help him make enchanted desserts that hold little surprises in them for you. has you cut open a cake to find a little box with various Devildom gemstones inside

- has cried before when patching you up after a particularly nasty encouter with an animal. you vowed to be a little safer after that, agreeing to call him first, touch second

- you keep him optimistic and bring a new liveliness to him. he'd happily spend eternity attempting to baby-proof the world for you

solomon

- yall wreak havoc together, your full time job is stressing out barbatos

- you go on trips with him to the Devildom forest to collect specimens for his potions, and he spends more time making sure you don't touch anything dangerous than actually getting supplies

- he'll use magic to protect you - creates spells to make you fireproof, fall-proof, etc. he's aware he can't make the world kinder, but he can make you practically invincible

- it's rare he doesn't know about whatever creature or food you're messing with, but when he is as lost as you it results in a science lab. you two once spent an afternoon figuring out what kinds of bugs the local toads like (the answer is none. the toad was too pissed at you to eat anything)

- he absolutely uses you as a guinea pig for his cooking. c'mon mc, you'll eat random fruit from trees but not his soufflé?! (the soufflé is breathing)

You shook it off time and time again. But behind myriad backs, you opened several books to find a resistance against the worst possible scenario. Now, you could think of many, but this was in and out of an inconvenience on its own.

So you continued, discreet; and for a while, you succeeded. Your methods, that is. Soon enough, a few remedies dipped in magic were about as useful as throwing in an aspiring onto an open wound. Circumstances forced your hand into more.. Creative means, so you continued to research better techniques —hells, you even managed to snag up a witch's location. Not just any witch, either; but one that specialized as a doctorate.

She did slam the door in your face, though.

But you continued looking —and before you knew it, running inked incantations and modified insignia along at least a few hundred dozen talismans had become routine. Some nights —you would lose yourself in the act, and while you sat at your desk at noon —you'd blink, feel cold air brushing your feet by the edge of the bed.

It was sunrise.

There would be instances where your shirt would incidentally lift a little high when you'd reach something —and even when no one was around —you'd feel the hole in your gut expand exponentially. It was humiliating, what you've become —over fifty talismans wrapped around the crevices of your form. Those, too, would not be visible to the naked eye. And still, that dread lounged on your shoulder. It mocks and points out the sheer futility in your efforts —but most of all, it's a drill sergeant; you would not expose even the faintest hint of decrepitude.

You would have hell to pay if you did.

At some point, it became clearer by day —there was no preventing what's coming to you —to the worlds.

You started hallucinating, too; you'd be standing in the library, calling back directions to denizens long gone —and you'd see them, too. It affected you regardless of where you were. You kept your composure pristine —but the moment Solomon caught you shaking your head, murmuring to an empty space —you knew it was time.

It probably cost you the remainder of your limited time —and it was infuriatingly difficult; using your connections to get your hands on things you otherwise couldn't —waiting while counting each ticking of the clock to get everything you needed. You traversed through Babel and the East of the celestial realm for some favors, but it didn't end there.

Solomon kept calling, too —on a daily basis, asking where and what you were up to. You'd tell him it was research —which in retrospect, was not far from the truth. The others were a bit harder to deal with; you appeared at important student council meetings in the Devildom, but that became about the extent of your expected visits.

Solomon would remark how hard working of a pupil you were, and most questions would die down after that. You brought whatever vintage souvenirs he’d like and left it on his desk, though he never asked. His surprised laughter at every occasional goods told you enough; kept you on your toes enough —you had to keep going.

But then came the torrents of visions —like how you foresaw Raphael's demise in Babel, back then. That was a wholesome snippet compared to what began playing itself into your senses each night —each time you fell asleep, really.

It wasn't as though you never saw this coming —not your own theurgy on a mark to consume you alive, but the escalating conflicts between the worlds. You just never could've imagined it could get so much uglier.

It only furthered your resolve to do this one thing —and you must, lest you forever stay as a faraway stain on humanity's name.

The day your work finally paid off —and after countless polishing of its properties, layer by layer —you picked up your phone and dialed a number you haven't used in a while. You were standing by the end of your elongated desk —cluttered with binded paper after paper, vials, old runes —and the sun filtering through the tall ends of triforium windows. Most of your furniture was wood, and after you got a priest to deconsecrate the place, you replaced most of the walls with enchanted solid iron.

Yes, you were never safe. Yes, even the serenity manor was not an option; so you took to farthest lands you could've taken —and it was an abandoned church building you remodeled for temporary periods of trips. The trick was that it looked as deserted as the day you saw it on the outside.

The door bell rung out.

“Come on in, Barbatos.” you usher the politely perplexed steward inside —but he wasn't just the next demon king's butler. He was a dear friend. It took you a pause to look at one another, like you were drinking in the presence of someone you thought you'd never see again. “It's been a while.”

But Barbatos smiles, a faint but genuine crinkles forming around the warmth of his eyes. “It has.”

You returned the expression —though there was something more restrained in yours. Then you guided him upstairs —and he sat down in the single armchair across you, while you briefly excused yourself. Common courtesy of bringing in some of his favourite tea blends, as well as with limited goods you spent a notable time attaining…

“We've a lot to talk about.” You said, settling in your own chair. He stirred his teacup, though you knew he was keenly listening. “It's about the future.”

Barbatos made a ‘hm’ noise, thoughtful —eyes flitting up to yours, now. “The future of which realm, may I ask?”

“It involves all three of them, I'm afraid.”

His hand pauses. Slowly, he leans back in his seat —but the intensity of his focus has heightened.

“It's not all grim news, don't worry.” You reassure, though faintly amused by his expression. “We'll just go over a few things.”

“If I may,” he speaks before you can continue, and you nod. “Pardon me if this comes across offensive.. But how long have you been staying here, [Name]?”

“It's been on and off. A temporary accommodation, if you will.”

He lets that sink in for only a second, eyes narrowing — “Are you in danger?”

You hold back in a sigh as you look around, wetting your lips. There's really nothing that gets past this man. “Not quite the direction you should be focusing on right now. There's foul things afoot, Barbatos. It's…”

You squeeze your hand inside your pockets to hide the quivers. “It's enough to incite war between all realms, if we're not careful.”

Barbatos’ eyes widen slightly, but he cools his demeanor. “And you know this, how, exactly?”

“I've seen it.” You look away briefly. “Remember Raphael's oopsie in Babel? I've seen that happen before it did in the real world, too. It's become a bit of a regular occurrence, now —these visions. And so far, it's never been wrong.”

“I see.” Barbatos hums, a troubled look crossing his face as he mulls over the revelation. “How do they happen? Your visions?”

“Usually in sleep. Sometimes, mid-day. Violent headaches, nosebleeds, all that classic shebang —so you get the image.” You cross a leg over another. “It's a mess unlike anything I've seen, Barbatos.”

Barbatos slowly leans in. “Tell me about it. Don't spare any details.”

And so you do.

What you still remember, at least. How all the three realms will go bazooka on each other —and in the name of rebalancing power, a staggering amount of human deaths toll up first. And because the devildom was already quite invested in the human world —they were directly involved in the fire. Witches working with dominions, and sorcerers standing with demons?

“An apocalypse, minus the biblical sense.” You cough into your palm. “At the very least, the fourth realm —the other one in between——remains undamaged for a while. But if just anyone strolls into the reaper’s cave to the fountain of knowledge, it'll be an even bigger setback. We'll have to enforce a better structural gateway plan with Thirteen. But all this is only a primary reason I brought you here, Barbatos.”

You catch the creasing in his crisp gloves, flexing by his side discreetly. “... And what would the main reason be?”

You look at him for a moment. Then you stand up, rounding around the room to stop by the desk —half an organized mess, but you know exactly where it is. Every file and book is burned into your memories, cluttered as they may be. You've rifled through them countlessly —enough to recognize each piece by the feel of its cover and size alone. Your hands rummage through the drawer and pull a small box, tinny enough to be half the size of your palm.

Barbatos is watching you with a tilted head when you turn —and your heart jostles at his abyssal eyes. You forget how unnerving his staring can be, sometimes. He looks at people like he is perceiving them, a keen eyed watchdog —as if he is not right by their side, experiencing their presence.

You're used to it a bit more by now, so it doesn't unsettle you as much as it would in the beginning. You just return to his side, though you do not sit —standing by the seat.

“I know no other who could wield it better than you, Barbatos.” You reaffirm —to a part of yourself and to him. You open up the box — pick up the glinting demise in between your fingers, watching his eyes slightly widen a fraction. “It tends to change design according to what it reads in your soul, so you don't have to worry about anyone recognizing it.”

“Is that — ?”

“A finalized prototype of the Ring of the Light, yes. I wasted half my dreary lifespan recreating its perfect image, so you better not fool around with it.” You glance at him sharply, rolling the ring around your digit.

“Why me, [Name]?” Barbatos asks, still looking at the ring —then to you, a conflicted crease between his brows. “Don't get me wrong, I am honored that you would go out of your way to consider giving such a powerful ring to me.”

“I'm not considering it, Barbatos. You're the sole candidate here.”

He looks at you for a long moment, like trying to read through your mind —but he gives up with a sigh, hands folded on his lap. “I suppose I'm glad that it was me who you've come to confer all this.”

You smile, then. It looks relieved —Barbatos thinks. Tired, but relieved —like half a boulder has been taken off your shoulders.

“How did you go about possibly even creating the exact replica, [Name]?” He asks with a thoughtful frown. “You're handing me power over half —if not the entirety of the angelicals’ legion. That must've cost you more than a hair.”

“I have my ways. And I know it's best kept within your judgement. I know you already have power beyond my comprehension, but…” You chuckle under your breath mirthlessly. “Consider it a gift.”

He blinks slowly, lost for words. You tilt your head, motioning briefly to his hands. “May I?”

Barbatos looks down to his lap —then up again, entrapping gazes with your own, and he nods surely. He lifts his hand to you —and you put down the box on the coffee table to his hand. It's strangely suffocating, the way he doesn't bother to take off his own gloves, and so you do, careful of not actually picking at his skin. His palm is bigger than yours —a fact that he'd commented about a while ago. A good thing it was, he'd said — good for butlers like him who juggle between various tasks.

You push the ring onto his ring finger —and hear the faintest hitching of the breath. Not paying it any more mind —you watch the ring take shape into something different; swirling lines of vantablack and turquoise.

“It's beautiful.” You tell him, and it's true. You pause then at your own words, and something more may have slipped up —but you clear your throat instead. His hand falls from your loose grip —and he lingers, no, two lean fingers chase the waning brumal grasp, but you turn in enough time to skip his fervid touch.

You don't look at his expression as you look out at the swaying wintry fields —you're more inclined to give him room to digest his gift, but he's not. Still, he raises his hand to examine the ring —and marvels at the oddity in its existence.

“I'm not quite sure how to accept something of this scale without any form of repayment, but…” He lifts his head, complexion melting into something more calm. “I won't let down your expectations, [Name].”

The next time Barbatos sees you, you're barely alive.

He would glimpse into the past, he'd agreed with the young Lord. He'd see the extent of which he'd need to do to secure the Devildom, and more importantly; you.

He was supposed to ask if you'd join him —just for a short while, just to confirm a few details.

You're not supposed to be producing this amount of blood from a nosebleed.

“What is the matter with you?” The words tangle in his throat. He's by your side in a blink, kneeling —hands and mind unsure of what to do with itself. “I should bring you to the finest doctor immediately —”

You tug his sleeve, the touch of an undead. There's more coming out of your mouth —out of your ears. You tell him it's pointless, and he almost snaps your wrist in half from incredulity alone.

“You can't make them treat what they can't find,” you hum, still propped against the wall, on the ground. You stop his prying hands as they try to find a wound —something —and to lift you up. “Listen to me for a second. Come on.”

“I don't want to hear another word from you, unless it's an agreement to how utterly negligent of a human you are,” He speaks the words like an executioner. That finality of his steely judgement has always scared you. Now, though? You can almost find it in yourself to smile in humour. “Keep your hands down. Save your strength for now, because believe me, you have some things to answer later.”

“Just.. calm down.” You try to wipe your mouth, but it's a smudged touch as any you could attempt. There's bile and blood and parts of mushed organs rising up your esophagus, so you cough onto your sleeve again. “This always happens. You can't stop it.”

The world turns to a standstill for Barbatos when he registers your words. “You do not mean that. You are not implying —?”

“A human body can only handle so much… power, Barbatos.” You finally lift your gaze from a dark spot in your study to him —his boundless eyes. It's hard to speak —and even harder to breathe, as the clock ticks. “Sorry. I'm pretty sure I don't live past this stage in any universe.”

“That's enough.” He pulls out a handkerchief —a pristine white work of embroidery and indigos to wipe the mess away. The onslaught of blood makes his hands falter. He's so good at steeling his emotions usually —so cold that it makes you wonder if there is anything stirring within him at all. “I will not listen to this eyesore of a parting monologue.”

It feels painful to even sigh. “I've had a target on my head for the crime of continuing to exist, Barbatos. My mere being is a sacrilege to them, don't you understand?” You grip his hands —and his heart wails at the feebleness in your grasp. “You can't stop them from what they'll do to me, but you can still… use the ring —use it for them. Time is on your hands.”

“I'll bring you help,” He states sternly instead —yet wavering at how increasingly cold you feel. He moves over you, wrapping his hands around the sides of your waist, but quickly realizes you've already lost the ability to walk, too. “Please do not…”

You murmur something again —but you've grown limp in his arms. The words are slurred in between and fade into ether. Your head drops lightly by his chest —and your hands are absent again.

There's so much blood. He can only wonder for how long you managed to contain a bursting vessel for so long —how many hours a day you spent awake to keep your own innards inside its suit. He can't quite tell, because even now, you look more asleep than dead —ignoring all the red. He checks your pulse and it's the most frightening sound he's heard.

It's the tune of pure absence.

Barbatos calls your name again. Shouts the syllables until his throat is scraped raw and no utterances budge you. He cradles you like a child holding onto a loss they can't decipher, nudges your head into the soft crevice of his neck and runs his hands over your back again and again. He consolidates you like you may still be here —still be stuck between the indefinite and on the center of agony.

Barbatos speaks your name, as if it were an incantation —a prayer to bring you back. But you already knew of every outcome; and you had to come to terms with it long before he could've ever suspected something as insidious as this was playing behind the curtain.

For a long while, he sits in the pitch black with you, wordless and immovable.

Today marks the day —the day you've departed from every realm wherein. An annual anniversary dedicated to you, specifically.

When you told him that he couldn't stop it —he didn't believe you then. He was a lone overseer to the decays of what the universe sang for a long, long time, after all. He has access to every choice you branch off to at the tips of his fingertips.

He believes you now.

Now —after having spent an unspeakable amount of time trying to undo the damage he foolishly overlooked. Was this vast gift worth it —worth to lose you, permanently, in a world toward perfection?

He had ushered you away from traveling to distant lands —in a bid to find you the cure you needed, the first time he came back in time. Just a hour after you bestowed him the responsibility. But such a thing did not exist in any historical record —there are no relics to suppress the surplus of magic coursing through your worn veins, constructed to eventually pop like birthday confetti.

His search does not end there.

He goes back even farther in time, having ensured you're in better condition. Sometime within the next week, again; your remains are left unrecognizable, when he finds them.

He thinks back on your words in the dark.

It's Diavolo who finally summons him back —and the more he speaks of finding a way, the sadder his Lord looks at him. He must've known how many portals he's opened by now —an unspeakable violation of time. Diavolo closes the case and orders any and all to stand down from interfering with the lifetime of a human —beloved as they may be.

It takes Diavolo the longest to get Barbatos to keep to his oath, considering everyone else who protested for a way and the unnatural state of your departure. It wasn't cancer and it was not an organ failure. The weight of the truth lies on a pair of threes —it was a necessary move to send you back in time. The only mutual goal in between them was that they needed you —and you specifically, on their side. It couldn't work as effectively were it not for the dual pacts.

It's obvious that a part of them, as finely kept in abyssal depths as it may be —feels responsible, and more or less, guilty. He sees it in the young Lord —and he reprimands him to look less haggard, that hunched sagging of his shoulders, and how he should keep a clear head. His crowning ceremony was upcoming soon, after all. Solomon does not look or speak to them as much anymore, but he remembers the glazed repression in his eyes. That ugly part of him inside revels, if only for a while, because you chose him over your own kin.

Barbatos quashes it down and, though usually unreceived —continues to send him baked sweets.

He should feel more pity —certainly, because it is nothing short of pitiful, the state of them all. Perhaps he is more alike to Solomon than he guessed; he, too, has been in the clouds throughout the aftermath.

There was a headshot carved statue of you — buried in a box in his room. It was a project you undertook in one of Diavolo's whims — carving life into stone, and he had watched your hands work its unending machinations. The only pressure he could cave in to was of Diavolo's. Yet his hands soon found themselves ungloved — dipping into clay — timeworn pupils counting every soft and sharp ends of your countenance. And he's kept it since then.

He presses his temple to the stone and inhales the decrepit scent from an era bygone. Recounts every mould of your vessel's face. Counts it again between his fingertips. He places it back into the shelf and fears its recollection.

It was the suddenness of it — your passing — that mostly took up the impact for the majority. Demons knew the lifespan of a human, and the sheer fragility of it. They just had a hard time coming to terms with it; you had immersed yourself so deeply within this society and its cultures.

The brothers have it the hardest —they had wholly welcomed you into their family, after all. Each time he sees either of them —they look a touch more lifeless than prior. Especially Lucifer who believes he can hide it well.

Still; life goes on.

Everything you warned him about were true. The world has been rewritten —and he continues to polish it like glass marble. It will never die, this world —and will continue to flourish, as it was meant to. Barbatos oversees Diavolo's coronation to the throne as their new king. The next exchange term delegation proceeds successfully; after arduous meetings with the scribes and Michael himself comes down. The Celestial realm welcomes its new exchange students by that vast field; Satan and Solomon.

Achieving this kind of peace —though pertaining its own ups and downs occasionally— is still akin to utopia for many.

You would've been proud — Barbatos thinks, standing in his room, lifting his hand with the ring of light resting snugly on his finger. His glove is laid out on his desk. The archaic hum of the door in front of him fills his mind with dull familiarity. It's like returning to base instincts — this aching reclamation. He puts back on his glove, flattening away the crease and folds —straightening his posture perfectly.

He'd hate for you to see him unkempt, of course.

The doorknob turns. Barbatos steps through, and his eyes gleam a deep, abyssal shade. He is the first and the last person to cope as unsightly as he had with your loss. You were not in heaven or hell. Your soul was kept behind a great darkness — slumbering a dreamless sleep in the supervoid of Purgatory.

How could they ever consider a world without you utopian?

The first time he sees you again—after so long—leaves him almost distracted. You're unaware of anything; how blissful it must be. He smiles at you then.

And he rips your soul straight out of its warded crevice.

He wishes there was a less painful way to extract your essence— without the gushing sea of crimson in your chest, or that indecipherable look on your face before you crumble. It's always a little different when he does it; your complexion is an array of betrayal, shock, confusion, the most occurring one — but it's always pained. Even brushing too close to the inner of one's soul can incite unspeakable pain, it is known and widely forbidden.

And each time he collects your essence, and you're but a hollow vessel on the floor—he snaps his finger once, and the end vacuums your world to null.

Barbatos comes to savor some of the instances. He doesn't get tired, but he stalls occasionally—just to hear your voice a little longer. Those versions of you are always the hardest to end, because they are you in a bend where you uttered a word differently. He sits in your gentle massacre before he erases those worlds, too— swallowing them like a particularly wide exhale. He's come to adore you, even when you look a little different or you don't recognize him at all, and he loathes what you've doomed his hands to perfect—his patience doesn't calcify, it's his atavistic nature that drowns you both.

Barbatos wonders if you too had to die a little in your delegation to carve him the ring that made the inevitable conflicts vincible.

The clock ticks. He has hunted down a little over 33644 variations of you. The precious souls writhe in an enclosed gem — they've meshed with one another, but it needs a little budging, because some are a lot less willing to become one — to surrender. He brings it up to his lips. Your fervor is admirable, really, even in this state.

They hold nothing else of you once they merge, however — no personality or perception. It's a pure mass of your individual essence that will outlive even your own theurgy. The weight of the dual pacts will feel like an afterthought for you, when his work is done.

The clock hums. Barbatos opens another door — and there he is, on the porch steps, nearing your sanctuary. Barbatos watches this past version of him halt — eerily still. His ears pick up on the distant cadence of a knell — but whom is it singing for?

He doesn't let him turn his head enough to understand the rip in time—he's erased every quota of his being with a scrutinizing glance alone.

No trace remains.

And he takes his place — standing right where he did. His measured steps carry him back in front of your door. He rings the door bell, a single lilt alerting you of his arrival. The clouds overhead gather and part in disarray. His lips twitch.

The door creaks an inch, opening fully once a glimpse of his immaculate — familiar suit registers to you. His eyes rake over your form — noticing only now of the weary ends below your eyes, the tenseness in your posture, like he might shapeshift into something else entirely.

But you step aside, carving him a path inside your hearth.

“Come on in, Barbatos.” You assess him in vigilance — partly with the feel of someone who thought they wouldn't cross paths again. A pause lingers. “It's been a while.”

He inclines his head, that knowing edge. “It has.”

Barbatos' aphotic eyes crinkle at the edges. Not from suppressing a smile or pathos. It's a strange sense of odium — when he knows what you will say and do in the next hour. He liked it better when he couldn't predict your next course of actions — indulge in the mastery of what you make with that cardinal mind of yours.

Regardless, he'd gladly take an hour of pretense than let you slip through his fingers again.

And when, finally, that ring sits snug on his finger, and you're a sentinel by the glass paneled windows — he rises.

He calls your name — an unsuppressible yawn of his being reveling in the oratorio of your company — and of noticing every minuscule timbre in your voice, the varying degrees of a penetrative gaze.

“I had something of my own for you,” He takes your hand. You look a little taken aback, fruitlessly anticipating what that entails. “I have been meaning to deliver it at your earliest convenience. I believe now would be a perfect time to fix that —” His jaw works, tense as a bowstring of even the concept of it — but his smile is still. Pleasant. “That affliction of yours is long overdue, wouldn't you say?”

Your pupils constrict. “Pardon?”

His hand holds yours still — the other coming up to briefly brush over your knuckles with his thumb. He produces something from the inner pocket of his coat, held delicately with his forefinger. It's a mood ring — lined acanthus, infrangible labradorite behind satiny glass.

“All you need to do, is wear it.” He says, a lulling temptation. “Please wear it.”

But you pull your hand away, when he's lifting your ring finger — and look at him like his efforts are only a subject of virulence. Deeply, inherently, disgustingly wrong. He counts the seconds of your hesitation; suspicion dawning way to blooming realization. Your hands fall back to your sides slowly.

“I died, didn't I?”

Barbatos' smile strains to a straight line.

His silence tells you enough and nearly nothing at all; nothing to grasp from the abyssal depths in his eyes. They lock with your own — ticking seconds — and for nearly a full minute, he is a black hole, biding his time to swallow you whole. The draped shadows crawl to the soles of his fine shoes, absorbing the light in your space.

And the room breathes — when your lips finally part.

“How did you get that, exactly?”

He looks to your hands, up at you again. You don't pull away when he takes your hand, but he notes the tension in your frame, brimming with questions. Barbatos examines your hand — parts that space to lift your ring finger, the eyes of someone whose nature and will is a shroud of demonic innominateness.

“The cost does not matter. Rest assured, you've no debt to me but to life,” He leans in, voice lower. “and you will live.”

Your fingers curl. “This function —”

“You may think of it as a vast channel.” He tuts. “the kind of vastness that can sufficiently hold half your magic. It will be sealed inside — and stabilize the irregularities, as well as purifying magic sickness.”

Your lips part. Close again.

Barbatos pushes the ring onto your finger — an unfamiliar knit of impatience searing through his tight grip, the way he doesn't even wait for a response. You watch in conflicted silence. Something feels different already within you.

“Do try not to lose it, [Name].” Barbatos brings your attention back to him, smiling. “It'd be truly remiss of you to lose your only chance of survival.”

You force down a nauseous motion, meeting his focused gaze. It takes you a moment to respond, the bluntness of his words stumping you back a mile. You nod with not quite a smile, but an appreciative balminess in your eyes — and Barbatos latches onto it in his mute gait.

“Thank you, Barbatos.”

“Don't thank me yet. Your recovery won't be a two-way street,” His eyes crinkle. Narrow, really. “But I'll be here to ensure the state of your well-being until I see fit.”

And he means it.

Life settles back into a familiar rhythm.

Due to your unstable flow of magic still being filtered through the ring — it required particular monitoring, as it's taking a 50/100 of that theurgy in a schedule Barbatos carefully curated for the matter of your safety. You're essentially a gaping hole with half your power undergoing a decontamination — a prize on a stick waved over a trickle of goliaths.

So on the days you'd have to put on the ring, for an hour or two, Barbatos would be sitting across you — knees tucked, an unopened ledger by the coffee table. A means of pretense; you'd feel better once you'd close your eyes (a mandatory meditative) and imagine him eventually picking that up, the surveying gaze lifting from your form.

When your eyes reopen, the ledger is moved by an inch. The tension eases around your shoulders.

And Barbatos offers you a patient smile. (His hand moved only once.)

The good thing is that it works, and you finally don't have to walk around in chronic pain, or with the bandages and talismans that are slick with sweat and blood across your skin. The notion of beginning to understand that you never had to live this way is a strange and startling one. To spend your nights organizing the upcoming exchange delegations in the tranquil of your room — impossibly lucid, that part of you who'd take that time to change clean linen and frustrate over the lack of desired results within the web is enjoying this. Just slightly. Perhaps —— more than that, at peace.

You are still vigilant, though, Barbatos notes. You hold these new halcyon experiences close to your heart, as unattached as you keep yourself, were it to wretch itself away from you at the whim of an absurd universe.

You're doing good. So, so very good, that surely you wouldn't mind Barbatos observing your progress at a closer vintage point. When you're at a good point of stability, he tells you to keep the ring on; it is attuned to the very pulse of your essence. It will keep you safe. From all harm — including yourself.

You don't even question his presence by your side as much anymore. He is the grounding, reliable end of you as extension; you coexist throughout the mirages and the hardships of working towards the brightest future for all three realms.

Barbatos' bellicose hands itch, sometimes — when he looks at you, you — being everything and nothing he expected you to be, weaving the delicate balance of the realms, as if your soul isn't an abiding empire he wishes to serve until the twelfth of never.